God and the Devil are at War

“Can I ask a question before we even start today?” It was Monday afternoon and there were around fifteen of us sitting in a circle on plastic chairs in an airless prison chapel with bad lighting. The question came from a young man who I’ve enjoyed getting to know over the last few months. He’s thoughtful, deliberate in his speech, deeply serious (alarmingly so, at times). When he speaks, people listen. “Yeah, of course,” I replied. “What’s your question?” He furrowed his brow, took a breath, and said, “What’s the point of being good?” Well, that’s the kind of question that can uncork an opinion or two.

The responses came thick and fast. One guy said the obvious: “Well, to avoid being in places like this!” Grins and chuckles all around. “Because there’s like, karma, you know?” another opined. “You put good out into the world and good comes back.” A few nods, but also a few, “Well, not always’s.” One guy seemed impatient with the question: “It’s not about doing good things, it’s about faith! All our good works will never be enough.” Someone’s been reading Romans, I thought. Another young man offered a remarkably mature theological anthropology: “I think it’s because each one of us is made in God’s image and because God is good, so we should be good, too.” Impressive. One guy directed the question right back at the questioner: “Well, lemme ask you a question, ‘Do you want someone doing bad s*** to you? If you don’t want it, don’t do it.” Ah yes, the Golden Rule, if expressed a bit more bluntly than usual.

It was a good and wide-ranging conversation. We talked about love and forgiveness and weak morality and Nietzsche and the will to power. We talked about Nazis and Noah and why God would wipe out his own image bearers. We talked about residential schools and how “good” institutions can do bad things. We didn’t spend much time on what I had planned to talk about, but that’s fine. More than fine, actually. Things are usually more interesting when we follow the rabbit trails.

At one point near the end, a new guy chimed in. Slick black hair, covered with tattoos (almost literally head to toe), a physique that looked like it had been chiselled out of stone. But also, a wide, self-deprecating grin. He had earlier passed when it had been his turn to read the Bible (“Nah, I can’t even read, man”), but later reconsidered due to sufficient encouragement from his compatriots. After labouring through two verses, there was uproarious applause. He smiled like he had just won a gold medal.

But back to goodness and evil. “You know, I don’t think we talk enough about the devil. Not like as an excuse for the s*** we’ve done, but, you know, there’s a war out there. There’s God… and God’s stronger, but the devil’s real, man. We all know this, am I right? I don’t know about all the why’s and the big philosophical questions about goodness of my friend here. I just think we’re in a battle.” He pointed to a few quite elaborate tattoos covering his neck, encroaching on his jawline. “You see this? God on one side, the devil on the other. I got these to remind me every time I look in the mirror. It’s God and the devil. And I’m at war.”

I’ve said this before, but I am regularly struck by how differently we theologize and read the Bible in jail than we do in “respectable” churchy circles. I thought about what might happen if I got up in front of my congregation on Sunday and said, “You know, we’re at war… the devil’s gonna try to make you do all kinds of s*** you shouldn’t… but you gotta fight, man.” I could imagine a few horrified stares. But does not this express something vital and true about the human condition? At the very least, it certainly seems like a more honest anthropology than the cultural default (even in the church, sadly), where so many seem to assume that those who aren’t good enough (according to our definition) can be lectured and hectored into more socially approved behaviour.

During prayer time, I asked the guys who I could pray for today. The names began to leak out around the circle. My cousin, my daughter, my dad, my girlfriend, my brother… Each time, I said, “What’s going on with them?” Each time, the answer was some variation of, “ah, you know, opioids, addiction, mental health, homelessness…” My heart broke as I looked at these guys faces. I almost literally can’t imagine the pain and sorrow that is the substrate of their lives. Yeah, they contribute their share. But their wars seem so much more desperate than mine.

I noticed something else when the guys were sharing before prayer time. When someone would talk about a hard thing, there would inevitably be a mumbled, “I’m real sorry, man” or “Thanks for sharing” or “That’s hard, dude.” Invariably, there would be some expression, however small, of compassion or kindness, something to say, “We’ll help you carry this pain, somehow.” An expression of goodness, in other words. However we might struggle to justify its pursuit or parse and define it, it seems to show up when there is pain to be shared.

At the end of our time together, the guy who lit the fuse by asking the question about goodness looked at me and said, “Same time, next week? Can we keep talking about this?” “Of course,” I said. “Hope the rest of your day goes well.” He smiled. “I have a good feeling, you know?”

Image source.